


Something Sweet to Think On

by JacquelineHyde



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2262228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacquelineHyde/pseuds/JacquelineHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has learned recently to her delight that even on nights that she wants only to sleep, he is not so quick to leave as he once was. Tonight, though, she is vehemently opposed to only sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Sweet to Think On

**Author's Note:**

> Another ASOIAF kink meme fill. Someone said Ned, Cat, and beard burn, and I was off and running. XD

It has been a long while since Catelyn has felt her heart sink so to hear her husband enter her bedchamber.   
  
Not that she does not wish to see him this night; she can admit, without  _much_  embarrassment, that she enjoys having him in her bed far more than she was led to believe as a girl was proper, can admit that she similarly enjoys the idea of being improper with him, particularly when he seems to enjoy it so much when she is. Some parts of being a wife are not what she had expected, but some things  _are,_  and his enjoyment remains always her chief concern when he comes to her bed, even when it takes the form of things that the Septa would cluck disapprovingly over.   
  
(It can hardly be otherwise, when he has been everything she could have hoped in a husband, gentle and kind, when he has lavished attention upon Robb and Sansa that sometimes verges on doting – and, shamefully, when the unfair, unworthy fear lingers sometimes in the back of her mind that failing to entertain him sufficiently might lead to more children gotten on other women and brought home to raise among hers.)  
  
She has also recently learned, to her delight, that even on nights that she wants only to sleep, he is not as quick to leave as he once was.  
  
 _I sleep far more restfully with you,_  Ned told her shyly the first night he came after Sansa's birth, when it was still too soon to lie together, and she hid a smile at how he looked as though he might burst in the effort to get the words out. Now, he spends nearly as many nights as otherwise here beside her, pulling her close while trying to maneuver his way out from under her pile of furs and blankets.  
  
It has been a short time since he began to sleep so many nights at her side, but she has already found that she sleeps more restfully with him too; even the absence of his tossing and turning, uncomfortably warm until she falls asleep and he goes to open the window, has become unpleasantly strange and more like to keep her awake than anything.  
  
Tonight, Catelyn is vehemently opposed to only sleeping.  
  
From the moment she woke this morning, she has been preoccupied with the hope that tonight might lead to anything  _but_  sleep.   
  
It is small wonder, when each time she managed to focus on something,  _anything_  else, the folds of her skirts brushed just the wrong way against the raised reddened marks left on her inner thighs by her husband's bearded cheeks and boundless enthusiasm the night past, and the slight sting brought the most delightful memories rushing to the forefront of her mind.  
  
It was not the first time Ned had done that, and always she has enjoyed it as much as he seems to when she does the same for him. But never before had he lingered so, kissing soft trails up and down her thighs, licking and teasing her in gentle nips, his eyes (gods, his  _eyes_ ) meeting hers, storm-dark with desire, and lit with a smile that suggested that he had no intention of being satisfied until he had her completely undone. By the third time the pleasure swelled and crashed over her outward from the movement of his tongue, it had been completely beyond her power to try and keep quiet, and her cries had only seemed to drive him on, his hands pushing her legs further apart and his mouth less and less teasing and more and more insistent.  
  
It has never been quite like that before, and so she had been surprised to find that the raw, stinging redness left by her lord husband's neatly trimmed beard against her skin had not faded as the day had gone by as it always has in the past, instead leaving her flushed and breathless with vivid reminders of the night before at the most inopportune moments.  
  
No, it is certainly not that she does not wish to have him in her bed tonight; she simply did not expect him to come this early, and had hoped that she would have time to finish with this.  
  
 _This_  is a little vial of soothing ointment given to her by Maester Luwin when she went to him this afternoon with a story of riding in the woods and coming across an unfamiliar plant that, it seemed, would have been more wisely left alone.   
  
Her falsehood had come with swift punishment, as the kindly old maester had insisted upon inspecting the afflicted area, reminding her gravely that Lord Stark would never forgive him, nor would he forgive himself, should her assessment prove incorrect, yet lead him to ignore a more serious problem.  
  
No matter that this man had delivered both her children, no matter the numerous inspections while she carried her sweet babes, her face had grown hot as she had lifted her skirts and pushed down her stockings to show the marks.   
  
It was some comfort that Luwin himself had gone slightly pink too, though he had simply announced mildly, hiding a smile, that he did not believe that the culprit was a plant of any sort, and he would give her something far more suited to her plight.  
  
Whatever it is that he has given her, it seems quite precisely suited to her plight, and already the sting has begun to subside where she has spread it over her skin. But the reddened patches are still most unsightly, rough and spotty and even more so against her absurdly pale skin, and the ointment has a smell that is far from enticing, so she had hoped to be safely beneath the furs of her bed, where both might remain safely hidden until her lord husband was too distracted by his own need to notice or care.   
  
She greets him with a smile that hides her apprehension as he stops short, eyes lighting up to find her perched at the edge of the bed in only a light shift pushed up to her waist, with her legs spread.   
  
As he approaches, his eyes flit to the vial in her hand, and he frowns. His frown deepens as he crouches before her and runs a gentle fingertip over the marks.  
  
“What is this?”  
  
She hesitates.  
  
“I've had an ill reaction to something. The maester believes it will fade in a day or two, but has given me something to help in case I should need it.”  
  
He looks up sharply at her attempt to brush vaguely over the cause of her minor affliction, and then tugs the vial out of her hand and tips a small amount into his palm and rubs slow, soft circles over her thigh. She draws a breath to speak, but it escapes as a soft sigh instead, her eyes drooping shut as the warmth of his hand seeps into her chilled skin, his calluses doing just as much as Maester Luwin's ointment to soothe the uncomfortable itch that has plagued her most of the day.  
  
But when she looks down next, the ugly bright patches are visible just beneath the edges of his palm, and she frowns and catches his hand to still it.  
  
“My lord, I cannot imagine that it is terribly pleasant to look at me like this. I would not blame you if you preferred not to stay tonight.”  
  
He raises his head to meet her eyes.  
  
“It is always pleasant to look at you,” he says, his voice a low murmur, and the hunger in his expression tells the truth of his words. “And to touch you.” He squeezes her thigh gently and resumes massaging the ointment into her skin. “But I am sorry that I hurt you.”  
  
“It hurts barely at all,” she hurries to assure him, and he looks up again, clearly unconvinced.   
  
“You sought out the maester for an injury that did not trouble you?”  
  
“It was not pain that drove me to seek assistance. It amounted to little more than a bit of stinging.”  
  
“Then you went to the maester because you thought that I would not like to look at you?” he asks, so clearly, endearingly confused that she can only laugh, even as she can feel herself flushing again.  
  
“Not precisely. As it happens, a bit of stinging is more than enough distraction when it serves as a reminder of things best not thought upon when there is work to be done.”  
  
This time, when he meets her eyes, his expression is a strange blend of skeptical and intrigued.   
  
“It is quite true, my lord. If you were to ask any of my ladies, they would tell you that your wife was most distracted and witless today.”   
  
The corners of his mouth quirk up a little, though he does not look up from his task as he tips a little of the ointment into his other palm. Perhaps it is her imagination, but the redness seems to be slightly less vivid than before he began, and the slow progress of his hand up her thigh holds no small amount of fascination.  
  
“They ought to take care how they speak to me of my wife.”  
  
She laughs again, a little breathless as his hand inches higher.  
  
“Of course they would not say exactly that. But they would certainly confirm that my thoughts seemed elsewhere all day, though my colour was very good.”  
  
His eyes dart up to hers immediately, and she inhales sharply as his knuckle brushes lightly against her sex.  
  
“And where did your thoughts dwell, my lady, that set you to blushing?”  
  
She can feel her face grow hot now – absurd, when she has been sitting before him nearly unclothed – and she leans closer to murmur in his ear.  
  
“You know as well as I how I came to have those marks, my lord; is it truly so surprising that I could not stop thinking of it?” She feels a slight shudder run through him, whether from her words, breathy against his ear, or her breasts pressed to his shoulder. “I can scarce say how wonderful it felt. I thought I might never breathe again, and I cared not, just so long as you did not stop.”   
  
It feels truly ridiculous, putting voice to such things, but she suspects that nothing else will convince him that she is desiring rather than dreading his attentions tonight. She brushes a light kiss just behind his ear and pulls back to meet his eyes, relieved to find that his breathing is not quite so steady as usual, and that he cannot seem to look away from her.  
  
“When I was not thinking of that, I was thinking of how nice it would be to come and find you and beg a moment of your time.”  
  
“For what purpose, Cat?” he asks in a low rumble, a glint of humour winking through the storm-dark shade she remembers from last night. “Now I am curious.”   
  
“I thought that I might climb into your lap, and press close against you until I could feel you grow hard. Then I would push our clothes aside just enough that I could take you inside me.”  
  
His grip on her thigh has been growing gradually tighter as she has spoken, while the little vial of ointment is nearly slipping from his fingers, but still he makes no attempt to touch her further, to strip off her shift and join her on the bed, so she tamps down her embarrassment and continues.  
  
“I know that such distraction when there is work to be done is entirely unacceptable, but I confess that I have hoped all day that you would come tonight and leave me just as distracted and witless tomorrow.”  
  
This seems precisely the invitation he was waiting for, laid out clearly enough at last, and she laughs as he springs up from the floor and tugs her with him in one motion. Her shift flutters to the floor, and she barely waits for it to land before she is reaching for him, loosening his breeches enough to slip her hand inside and wrap it around his cock. She is delighted to find that he is already hard, and even more so at the way his eyes flutter shut on a breathy groan when she squeezes tightly, but decidedly less so when he catches her hand and moves it firmly away.  
  
She must look aggrieved indeed, for he chuckles.  
  
“If you do that, this shall end before it has begun, my lady, and I would give you something more than that to think on tomorrow.”  
  
For a brief moment, she considers tugging her hand free of his and slipping it down his breeches again, for she thinks that she could happily spend tomorrow's quiet moments revisiting the memory of bringing her solemn, stoic husband undone by only the touch of her hand.  
  
But she has spent the better parts of the day aching for him, so it is only very briefly that she hesitates before tugging helpfully at the rest of his clothing, taking his hands and drawing him naked back onto the bed with her.  
  
He comes to lie over her at once, hands in her hair as he kisses her deeply, one thigh nudging hers apart, and the sharp sting is so much a departure from his careful, gentle touch only moments ago that a yelp escapes her before she can stop it. He pulls quickly away, searching her face with alarm clear in his, and she curses herself.  
  
 _Of course_  he would fret over the thought that he had hurt her, however slightly – she knows  _that_  perfectly well from his look of miserable remorse over the neat line of bruising that he discovered across her bottom one morning last week, courtesy of the edge of his desk when she came to bring him to bed the previous night, and instead lingered rather longer with him than either of them had intended.  
  
She is scrambling for the words to assure him that she is unharmed, to beg him to come back, when he pulls her up with him, and guides her onto hands and knees.  
  
“Is this more comfortable?” he murmurs, pressing close from behind, and the teasing comment she had intended escapes as a breathless “yes,” which in turn becomes a noise of outraged disappointment when he pulls away and evades her attempts to wriggle back against him onto his cock.  
  
He chuckles softly when she glares over her shoulder, brushes her hair to one side and presses hot, wet kisses to the back of her neck as his hands roam down her back, cupping and squeezing at her bottom.  
  
She gives a soft hum of contentment as his mouth follows the path of his hands down her back, beard prickling deliciously against the delicate skin, and feels him hesitate briefly at the base of her spine before dipping lower. She freezes, certain that he does not realize that he has done it, and that he will pull quickly away any second now, but he moves only briefly to trace the curve of her hip before dragging those tingling trails up again, over her bottom. When she casts a look of shock over her shoulder, he meets her eyes without stopping, and before she realizes it, she is squirming back against him. His soundless laugh gusts warm over her skin, and she throws her head back with a gasp as he slips one hand between her legs, gently teasing where she is slick and hot. His fingers moves in light circles over her nub, and the fierce ache of pleasure seems only intensified by the scratch of his beard.   
  
As she feels herself tightening around his fingers where they thrust and twist inside her, she reaches blindly back behind her, grasping at air, until his hand catches hers. Their entwined fingers sink into the furs as he leans over her, and this time when she tries to squirm back against him, he groans his encouragement and positions himself. His hands are gentle at her hips as he guides her back onto him, and she can just barely hear him groan again over her own cry of pleasure.  
  
This is something new to her too, for always before they have made love face to face, his eyes attentive for any hint of discomfort or distress whether he has come to lie over her or pulled her up to sit atop him. But the sensation of his muscled thighs pressing against the backs of hers, the way he hits that spot inside her with every thrust, are enough that she nearly forgets to regret the loss of being held in his arms, watching his face transform with mounting passion.  
  
And when he takes her hand again, positions it between her legs and guides her fingers over her slick bud, she forgets near everything else too, can only buck harder back against him as that blissful heat sweeps over her in waves. She drops to her forearms, cheek against the furs, her limbs feeling shaky and useless. Then he is pulling her up against him, her back tight against his chest, his mouth at her neck and his hand cupping and squeezing her breast as he moves more and more frantically inside her, and when he comes, he buries his face in her hair to muffle his shout of pleasure.  
  
They make love twice more before they drop exhaustedly to sleep, and again in the dim, rosy light of very early morning, and as he pulls her close after to nestle against his chest, she can feel his brief, quiet laugh beneath her cheek.  
  
“Do you still fear that a little redness and a silly dab of ointment will make me loathe to touch you, Cat?”  
  
Ordinarily, she might blush at this, but she is feeling too blissfully, wearily sated to even consider such silliness. Instead, she raises one sleepy eye and shakes her head, before curling around his side again, head at his shoulder.  
  
He laughs again, and she sighs in contentment at the slow path of his hand down her back. When he reaches her bottom, he squeezes lightly, and she yelps, startled, at the flare of stinging pain, quite familiar now, but certainly not _there_. Her husband is clearly just as startled as she; he pulls away as though burned, and when he cranes his neck to look down the curve of her back, and his expression grows horrified. He coughs sheepishly.  
  
“We may need to see the maester for more of that ointment.”  
  
“Perhaps. But Ned,” she says, pushing up from his shoulder to meet his eyes as sternly as she can when it is so difficult to keep a straight face, “I think it only right that you come along to explain to the poor man why I need it for this particular area.”


End file.
